


Pumpkin Juice Is Not The Only Juice

by EliMorgan



Series: Shots and Shorts [17]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Mischief, Pumpkins, SomethingWicked19, bad language, crossover fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 21:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliMorgan/pseuds/EliMorgan
Summary: Clint and Ginny go to war.





	Pumpkin Juice Is Not The Only Juice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ABrighterDarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABrighterDarkness/gifts).

> **I do not own the works made use of herein, none of the Harry Potter/Marvel universe features or characters belong to me. I make no money from this work.**
> 
> Hello!
> 
> This little ficlet was written for MMF's SomethingWicked19, for which I was given prompt XO 01; "Pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin. Why does everything have to taste like pumpkin this time of year?"
> 
> I must admit, I hadn't ever tasted pumpkin before this past month, during which I walked three miles and caught a cold in pursuit of it. Do not expect pumpkin realism! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it, most especially [ABrighterDarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABrighterDarkness/pseuds/ABrighterDarkness) who supplied this prompt. Season's greetings!
> 
> Love, Eliza x

Clint had operated for years under the assumption that he'd never be lucky enough to meet his soul mate, or, if he did, it would probably be on the battlefield, or in a HYDRA bunker, or somewhere equally inopportune. Maybe he'd fall in love at first sight only to realise that they're the bad guy, or he's the bad guy, or they're on opposite sides or maybe they're - - 

You get the picture. He liked to pretend he didn't think about it often, but he did, because he was a romantic at heart, and also, well, pretty lonely. 

He didn't think he'd meet her in a bar, cussing out his best friend; cigarette in one hand, the other wrapped firmly around the waist of one of the most notorious assassins ever to come out of Russia. 

"I don't actually smoke," she told him later, when he'd finally plucked up the confidence to ask her out and they'd ended up in his bed. She'd been apologetic, because he'd bought some and put them in his bedside cabinet, hopeful that one day… Maybe. "I needed a weapon, and my wand was at home. What? Don't look at me like that - I was giving an assassin the Shovel Talk over my ex-boyfriend. You'd grab anything you could find, too."

He did, however, consider himself lucky to have found such a woman at all. Ginny Weasley might not have been the sweetest, most affectionate of people, but she loved him fiercely. She understood what it was to fight for your life, and the lasting effect that could have. She nursed him through his Loki-nightmares because she, too, had had her identity ripped away from her in the past, and had grown from it. She worked hard and played hard and brought joy into all the dark corners of his life. 

She was his perfect match. 

That was… Not always a good thing. 

* * *

It started at her mother’s house. She had been offered some pumpkin juice, which she’d politely declined, and with anyone else, that might have been the end of it. But Clint was a spy, and in love with her; he’d made it his mission to learn everything he could about her, and the expression that crossed her face at the mere mention of pumpkin juice… that had been intriuging.

“Why do they always offer you pumpkin juice if they know you don’t like it?” he’d asked, confused.

Ginny had bristled, spinning on her heel and scowling at him. “Excuse me?”

He blinked stupidly. “Did I-”

“I like pumpkin juice,” she’d said, defensively, and that was about the moment he realised he’d put a foot wrong. “It’s good. Juicy. Actually, Harry, on second thoughts, I’ll take two.”

Harry Potter, used to Natasha by now, had merely raised an eyebrow and handed them each a cup. Ginny met his eyes in challenge, and downed the lot. 

Clint, not to be outdone, gulped his own serving down, only to realise that pumpkin was disgusting. So disgusting. He had to harness all of his spy training in order to prevent himself from throwing up. Ginny, however, grinned.

“Ah.  _ You _ don’t like pumpkin, either.”

“Either? So you admit you don’t like pumpkin?”

“I love pumpkin!”

“So do I!”

And just like that, Pumpkin-Chicken was born.

* * *

Clint had thought that would be the end of it, but he’d underestimated Ginny’s determination. Looking back, he knew he shouldn’t have challenged her in front of her family. That was asking for trouble, even if he hadn’t meant it the way she interpreted it.

Still, pride refused to let him back down from a challenge, and if she wasn’t going to admit it, neither was he. You might be wondering, at this point, what sort of a person went to war with their significant other rather than admitting to a small vulnerability.

The sort of person who’d once adopted a feral cat he was allergic to because Bucky called him a coward, that’s who. 

Ginny fought dirty, though. That much he found out, two days later, when Molly Weasley handed him a slab of pumpkin pie the size of his head with a motherly grin.

“Ginny told me it was your favourite,” she trilled, dolloping whipped cream liberally on top. “So I made it  _ especially for you _ !”

Clint groaned inwardly, looking between Molly’s hopeful grin and Ginny’s slightly evil smirk. The situation only worsened when, as Molly approached, his loving girlfriend waved a hand in refusal. “I’ve got training in the morning,” she demurred firmly. “If I eat that now, I’ll sink!”

Which left Clint to eat the pie, bite by excruciating bite, and glare at her across the table as she sipped her tea.

* * *

Ginny had a routine. Before a Quidditch match she would run three miles around the compound, eat a nutritious breakfast of porridge and honey, then suck down a protein shake before apparating to the stadium. It was the same every match day - right down to her laying out her uniform the night before, because she was  _ not  _ a morning person and that way she could save all of her brain power for the game.

Never before had Clint thought to mess with her on Game Day.

It all started relatively well. She woke up, stumbled her way around the track a few times, then cooked her breakfast on autopilot. Clint came in halfway through and kissed her sweetly before retreating to the bathroom, but she didn’t think anything of that. 

Not until she was sat down on the sofa, frowning blearily at her porridge and wondering how had it gotten so orange. And why was it thinner than usual. And why did it taste…

As the flavour settled on her tongue, she looked up to see a crumpled orange carton on the side. Her gag reflex kicked in, and it hit her.

“Oh - Circe  _ no _ \- I’m going to  _ kill you, Clint Barton!” _

* * *

Clint was not ashamed to admit that he’d hidden from Ginny for a few days after that. She’d fumed her way through her match, not so much breaking bones as tearing the other players apart. When it seemed to roll on too long for her liking, she’d caught the snitch herself, landed, and punched her team’s seeker in the face with it.

In hindsight, messing with her breakfast on a work day probably wasn’t the best of decisions. 

But she was so infrequently oblivious. To get him to eat pumpkin, she manipulated his emotions and played on his sense of trust, but Ginny trusted  _ no-one _ . She was always on alert for pranks; even Natasha wasn’t one-hundred-percent immune in the way that Ginny was!

Eventually, however, Ginny came up to him and demanded he stop avoiding her. “I’m cold and my bed is empty and I love you, idiot,” were her exact words, and after that they had a few weeks of normality.

Until.

* * *

"I brought coffee!" Ginny trilled, waltzing into the kitchen with several trays filled with to-go cups floating along behind her. Three words guaranteed to capture attention, especially from a group of exhausted super-humans just trying to watch Shrek 3. "The good stuff, from Starbucks, rather than that place up the road. I don't know what their 'special blend' is, but I suspect there may be rat droppings involved, so I’m not going to risk it." 

There was a mass exodus as his friends rushed toward her, all of them caffeine-deprived and previously too exhausted to do anything about it. She was swarmed in seconds, but Clint loitered behind. He smelled a rat, alright, and it wasn't in the coffee. Ginny's smile was a little too bright, her eyes sparkling with mischief. 

"Don't you want one, love?" she asked, her voice an octave higher than usual. A cup was waved enticingly in his direction, his name scrawled clearly on the side in black marker. "They actually spelled your name right. It's a sign!" 

“Is it poison?” he asked, only half joking. Ginny tossed her hair. 

“I guess you’ll just have to find out.”

Taking the cup, somewhat suspiciously, he sniffed it. Nothing  _ smelled _ off. Maybe she  _ was _ just being nice. 

He took a large slurp, choked, coughed, and forced himself to swallow it, all under Ginny's malevolent gaze. What, so they were putting pumpkin in coffee, now? Coffee! Was nothing sacred? “What the hell is this?” he demanded, unable to stop himself.

“It’s a pumpkin-spiced latte,” he was informed by Wanda, who had already finished hers and had a blob of whipped cream on her nose to prove it. “It’s very fashionable.”

Oh. Ginny's face was close to splitting from that smile of hers. "Delicious," he lied, with a weak smile. How many times would he have to brush his teeth before the taste left his mouth? 

* * *

Ginny wandered into the kitchen, only half awake. Her game had continued on into the wee hours, only stopping when the referee had finally realised that one of the spectators had swallowed the snitch. After hours of arguing between teams - the fan who’d swallowed the snitch had been a Harpies fan, but the Cannons thought this meant that they should get the points to teach the Harpies a lesson - she’d finally dragged herself to bed at nearly six in the morning.

Hunting through the cupboards, she ignored the chatting behind her in favour of commandeering Bucky’s emergency Weetos stash. He would understand; after last night, she couldn’t possibly be expected to go about her day without a mouthful or two of chocolatey goodness to sustain her.

"Ginny! There you are!" 

A warm, hard body appeared behind her, Clint's unique scent of leather and sweat permeating her fug. Smiling, she leaned into it, expecting morning cuddles. She liked morning cuddles. It was the only part of mornings she liked, except for Weetos. 

He wrapped one arm around her (yay, muscles!) but with the other yanked her cereal box away. "Oi!" she shouted, her mind suddenly clear and  _ very, very angry!  _

"No cereal this morning," Clint cooed, clamping her to his side and ignoring her hissing. He tossed the box onto the counter and pulled her in the opposite direction. "Darcy baked."

"She did?" Sweet, merciful Merlin, but that girl could bake! Ginny perked up immediately, her eyes zeroing in on the muffins laid out on the cooling rack. "I love you," she told her boyfriend, ripping out of his grip and sprinting to the table. 

She'd already taken two bites before her sense of taste caught up with her, and the betrayal hit her like an anvil. 

"What's wrong, honey?" Clint wheedled when she froze in horror, grinning like the cat who'd caught the canary from across the room. Smart of him to put that much space between them, what with the stunt he'd just pulled. Arsehole.

"Nothing," she replied sweetly, through the mouthful of  _ utter disgustingness  _ he'd tricked her into eating. "I'm just wondering why you're not eating? They're so  _ good.  _ Pumpkin, are they, Darcy?" 

Darcy, who'd watched this entire interaction with interest, nodded confusedly. "Pumpkin and poppy seed."

"Your  _ favourite _ ," Ginny spat, not entirely able to hide the venom in her tone. 

Clint shrugged. "I already ate." 

"I'll save you one," Ginny growled, glowering at the half-eaten mess. Fucking  _ pumpkin.  _

* * *

“Morning, honey,” Ginny’s dulcet tones lured him to consciousness, her fingers tracing a path along his skin. He reached for her, all warm and slightly damp, his hands slipping as he tried to find grip on her skin. She must have been for a run, he thought distantly, to need a shower this early in the morning. Any further thought abandoned him when she slid that hand between the sheets and purred at him in _that_ _way_.

He must have grunted something about how good it felt, for she snickered and arched in his arms, pulling his lips down to her skin. He followed eagerly - he wasn’t going to complain - nipping and nibbling and kissing his way across her torso, searching out a breast.

When he licked, however, he froze, his head jerking back reflexively.

“What the fuck is that?” 

Ginny’s head shot up, an innocent pout marring her lovely face. “What? What are you talking about?”

Darting downwards, he sampled her skin once more, his face contorting in disgust. “Oh - no -”

He only just made it to the bathroom before he threw up, his stomach contracting viciously, his brain cursing in every single language he knew. That was enough. He’d hit his limit. If he so much as  _ smelled- _

Ginny came to crouch behind him, slipping a wet cloth onto his clammy forehead. With her other hand, she rubbed soothing circles over his back. 

"Are you going to admit it?" she whispered, smoothing the cloth over his face to wipe away any remnants of vomit. 

"Did you-" he croaked, then took a moment to gather his breath. "Did you really rub pumpkin all over yourself?" 

"Pumpkin-flavoured body scrub," she informed him, clearly smirking. "Didn't you like it?" 

He groaned, pulling his head back to rest against her chest. She pulled him closer, rubbing her hands down his arms. "Why does everything have to taste of pumpkin this time of year?" he complained mournfully. "I hate pumpkin. Loathe it. Always have, always will. You happy now?" 

"Not as satisfying as I expected it to be," she admitted softly, hugging him in apology. "But, yes."

"You hate pumpkin too. You  _ started  _ this!" he accused. 

He felt her frustrated growl. "I know! I’m sorry. But you try  _ not  _ hating pumpkin when it's the only thing available for seven years! Honestly - Hogwarts didn't have orange juice, apple juice, or even fucking water! It was pumpkin juice every day, all year round! By graduation I was ready to kill the next person to offer me a drink."

He laughed, the action scratching at his sensitive throat, and Ginny conjured him a glass of water. He chugged it down gratefully. 

“Why didn’t you just say?”

Her fingers combed through his hair distractedly, and he leaned into it, trying not to purr. “You looked so smug. And you were wrong, anyway - nobody knows I hate pumpkin. I’m a witch, for Merlin’s sake! To say I hated pumpkin would be like you saying you hated pizza.”

"I love you,” he sighed, snuggling closer into her breasts. “But, if you ever make me eat pumpkin again, I’ll shoot you.”

"You're an idiot," Ginny said. But affectionately, so it counted. 


End file.
